| Song | Gun In Your Mouth |
| Artist | La Coka Nostra |
| Album | A Brand You Can Trust |
| [Intro:] ~Slaine~ | |
| For the Charlestown bank robbers, this one’s for you. C’mon. | |
| [Chorus:] ~Ill Bill~ | |
| I’mma rob a bank then I’mma bounce down south | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| Stick up the dope man, y’all know what the **** I’m about | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| Run your whole shit, stash box under the couch | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| Run up in your momma’s house and air everyone out | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| [Verse 1:] ~Slaine~ | |
| Let’s smoke a bundle of embalming fluid | |
| Stick an armoured car up, I’mma climb into it | |
| All I need is an eightball and nine to do it | |
| I’ll put the ****ing driver in the trauma unit | |
| I know some wannabes sloppy with keys | |
| With coke and cash in the crib, probably trees | |
| We’ll get em drunk, passed out then copy his keys | |
| Open his door, rope up his whore and then breeze | |
| I know the time for a robbery | |
| Is really long but it really doesn’t bother me | |
| I need to get rich, bitch cause I’m drug sick | |
| I got a mask, gloves, gun and a thug clique | |
| **** a pig cop faggot or a mob flick | |
| We get away clean, we’ll never be seen | |
| And this is the American dream | |
| So we fight for it, kill for it, whatever it means | |
| [Repeat Chorus:] | |
| [Verse 2]:~Everlast~ | |
| It’s the ironman with a nine in his hand | |
| Got my mind on the plan cause I grind for the fam | |
| Kick in the door waving the four-four | |
| Run the kush and the cash, get your ass on the floor | |
| Ties his hands behind his back with extension cords | |
| He was slipping backstage at the Source Awards | |
| I call DMS, you call EMS, FDNY, NYPD | |
| We get high committing strong-armed robberies | |
| Don’t matter if it’s crack, heroin, or trees | |
| When the gun’s in your face, you gonna open the safe | |
| Unless you really wanna know how a bullet’ll taste | |
| [Repeat Chorus:] | |
| [Verse 3:] ~Ill Bill~ | |
| I pull hammers like double aces, Desert Eagles in your ****ing faces | |
| It’s Billy Crystal, the ****ing greatest | |
| A really cool guy, run up on you shoot nines | |
| A ****ing idiot, I ain’t afraid to do time | |
| Addicted to money, I ain’t afraid to do crime | |
| Addicted to pussy, X-rated with two dimes | |
| I fall asleep at night clutching the biscuit | |
| Hiding the kilo, the cocaine, and a bucket of chicken | |
| Listen, we big earners with big burners, a bunch of murderers | |
| **** a heater, I’ll beat you to death with furniture | |
| Throw chairs and tables, kitchen sinks, listen bitch | |
| We the shit, mother****er this is it | |
| We the real thing, we bring Scorsese to reality | |
| I turn horrifying behaviour into salaries | |
| I jump out a helicopter and pop ya | |
| Run up by you while you’re in Burger King eating a Whopper | |
| [Repeat Chorus:] |
| Intro: Slaine | |
| For the Charlestown bank robbers, this one' s for you. C' mon. | |
| Chorus: Ill Bill | |
| I' mma rob a bank then I' mma bounce down south | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| Stick up the dope man, y' all know what the I' m about | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| Run your whole shit, stash box under the couch | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| Run up in your momma' s house and air everyone out | |
| With a smile on my face and my gun in your mouth | |
| Verse 1: Slaine | |
| Let' s smoke a bundle of embalming fluid | |
| Stick an armoured car up, I' mma climb into it | |
| All I need is an eightball and nine to do it | |
| I' ll put the ing driver in the trauma unit | |
| I know some wannabes sloppy with keys | |
| With coke and cash in the crib, probably trees | |
| We' ll get em drunk, passed out then copy his keys | |
| Open his door, rope up his whore and then breeze | |
| I know the time for a robbery | |
| Is really long but it really doesn' t bother me | |
| I need to get rich, bitch cause I' m drug sick | |
| I got a mask, gloves, gun and a thug clique | |
| a pig cop faggot or a mob flick | |
| We get away clean, we' ll never be seen | |
| And this is the American dream | |
| So we fight for it, kill for it, whatever it means | |
| Repeat Chorus: | |
| Verse 2: Everlast | |
| It' s the ironman with a nine in his hand | |
| Got my mind on the plan cause I grind for the fam | |
| Kick in the door waving the fourfour | |
| Run the kush and the cash, get your ass on the floor | |
| Ties his hands behind his back with extension cords | |
| He was slipping backstage at the Source Awards | |
| I call DMS, you call EMS, FDNY, NYPD | |
| We get high committing strongarmed robberies | |
| Don' t matter if it' s crack, heroin, or trees | |
| When the gun' s in your face, you gonna open the safe | |
| Unless you really wanna know how a bullet' ll taste | |
| Repeat Chorus: | |
| Verse 3: Ill Bill | |
| I pull hammers like double aces, Desert Eagles in your ing faces | |
| It' s Billy Crystal, the ing greatest | |
| A really cool guy, run up on you shoot nines | |
| A ing idiot, I ain' t afraid to do time | |
| Addicted to money, I ain' t afraid to do crime | |
| Addicted to pussy, Xrated with two dimes | |
| I fall asleep at night clutching the biscuit | |
| Hiding the kilo, the cocaine, and a bucket of chicken | |
| Listen, we big earners with big burners, a bunch of murderers | |
| a heater, I' ll beat you to death with furniture | |
| Throw chairs and tables, kitchen sinks, listen bitch | |
| We the shit, mother er this is it | |
| We the real thing, we bring Scorsese to reality | |
| I turn horrifying behaviour into salaries | |
| I jump out a helicopter and pop ya | |
| Run up by you while you' re in Burger King eating a Whopper | |
| Repeat Chorus: |